


My Skin is Your Canvas

by papercutperfect



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercutperfect/pseuds/papercutperfect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is an artist suffering from creative block. Enter Erik, his still-life inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Skin is Your Canvas

A blank canvas; the bane of every Artist’s existence.

Similar to the blinking Word Document of an Author, or the echoing loft-space of so many Interior Designer’s - mocking and teasing and achingly void.

Charles could plainly see what he wanted to create, right there in his mind’s eye. But would it get the heck out of his head and appear on the canvas in a crisp wash of watercolor oils?

Of course not.

Creative Block; quite possibly the reason so many Artist’s became bloated, alcoholic suicides.

Charles sighed, scrubbed paint-stained hands over his face. This was getting ridiculous. Three weeks now and nothing, not so much as a stick man walking a stick dog, or a few swipes of vibrant colour that he could sign and pass off as ‘modern art’.

Even his students were beginning to suffer. Angry elements were steadily draining back into Alex’s work, horsehair brushes stabbing the dry canvas so hard he almost tore through it. Sean was too busy whistling along to his iPod to pay attention to Charles’ half-hearted attempts at teaching, and Raven… Raven’s own insecurities virtually screamed through her artwork. Women stained with streaked make up and Barbie Doll figures, none of them smiling, and whilst wonderful in their own way, they were everything Charles was trying to stop her from creating, reflections of her own warped view of beauty.

What kind of teacher was he supposed to be with Creative Block? He needed inspiration, and quickly.

Which was exactly why he had gone back to his roots, to his days at Art College hunched over his easel in a class of twenty, peeking out at the stripped model sat quietly in a ring of blushing students.

Still Life. A wonderful form of art that was sadly becoming terribly overlooked these days.

Charles absently tapped a brush against his knee, glancing down at his watch. He had twenty minutes before his model arrived, just enough time to -

As if on cue, the studio door swung open hard enough to bang off its hinges, a man stalking through in a sweep of Autumn leaves and cold, November air.

Charles turned - and felt his jaw drop.

The man was _stunning_ ; tall and lean, with close-cropped hair the same colour as the leaves that swirled at his feet; red, brown, dark chocolate, a deep auburn. The black Henley he wore was surely far too thin for this time of year, top buttons open to reveal tantalizing inches of fair skin, and god, the _eyes_ he fixed on Charles - even from across the room, Charles could feel them searing to the bone, their hold the magnetic pull of Medusa. Blue… or were they grey? No, green in this light. Whatever they were, they were looking into Charles’ soul with the unerring intensity of someone who was picking you apart with their gaze, reading and judging you in one brief flick.

“Um, hello there,” Charles swallowed against his suddenly dry throat, hopping down off his stool. The model twitched his lips in some semblance of a smile, finally looking away from Charles to observe the small studio.

He waved a hand - long fingers and delicately strong wrists - at the podium in the center. A simple thing, a stool set on a backdrop of white and black, surrounded with an array of stage lights, “This where you want me?”

 _Amongst other places, yes._ “Yes, yes it is,” Charles inwardly kicked himself in the arse for staring so openly like a Guppy Fish, moving forward with a hand extended, “I’m Charles Xavier, I’ll be painting you this afternoon.”

“Erik,” a short but firm handshake - god, those hands - and Erik was pulling back, an air of practiced defense to him that Charles knew to respect, unless he wanted Erik turning on his heel and leaving.

Smiling warmly, Charles walked backward to his easel, to the small workstation situated behind it. A bottle of wine stood ready; it wasn’t unusual for his model’s to need a quick glass of something strong to calm their minds, “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Erik seemed to take that very literally, nodding once and beginning to shed his clothes, peeling the Henley over his head. Charles nearly knocked over the glass in his haste to point at it, “I meant - I only - would you like a drink first?”

Erik’s eyes slid to the bottle, the Henley hanging loose in his hand.

Charles abruptly lost the ability to breathe; lightly tanned skin stretched over finely chiseled muscle, graceful and beautiful and devilish. The build of a dancer, a swimmer, a Greek bloody God. Michelangelo’s David - that is, if David had been covered head to toe in scars. Serpentine, a patchwork of them, pale and shining against the light scatter of freckles at Erik’s chest, across his stomach, everywhere. Erik didn’t seem shy of the scars, and why should he be? A living, breathing work of art.

It took him a moment to realize Erik had accepted the offer of a drink, Charles pouring him one immediately, spilling more on his fingers than he did into the glass. Erik was smiling as he took it, small and barely-there, but still a smile.

“I’ve seen your work. It’s very good,” an accent, Eastern-Europe perhaps?

“Well, thank you. I’ve been suffering from a bad case of the dreaded Block recently, but I think-” Charles paused, trying not to flirt but damn it, it was hard when Erik was stood there half-naked and staring down at him like he was dinner, “I think I’ve just had a flash of inspiration.”

Erik’s smile grew wider, nearly a smirk, and he set his wine glass down to - oh Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus - unbuckle his belt, shimmy painted-on jeans down to pool at his ankles. No boxers underneath. Lean thighs, a tapered waist, a thatch of thin brown hair leading down, down -

“If you’d like to get up on the cock - ah, block,” Face aflame, Charles pointed toward the pedestal in the center of the studio. Erik picked up his wine glass, that ghost of a smirk still there as he wandered over to perch on the chair, completely unconcerned about his nudity.

Charles unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, climbing up onto his stool to busy himself by mixing paints with shaking hands. He’d much rather drag it across Erik’s naked skin, a canvas of muscle and multicolor scars, blues and greens and reds and magenta’s, framing each bicep, each sinuous curve.

Taking a deep breath, Charles brought his eyes up, locked them with Erik’s - smiled - and began to paint.


End file.
